


Hand-Me-Down

by spartanroses (babybrotherdean)



Category: God of War (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 12:12:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16174838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybrotherdean/pseuds/spartanroses
Summary: An exploration of how Atreus came to start wearing Kratos' old sash.





	Hand-Me-Down

**Author's Note:**

> This took so much longer to write than it should have. I think I intended for it to be a quick 500-word one-off scene, but... um.
> 
> Anyways. Here's the thing! <3
> 
> (zero percent proofread because I've been sitting on this for ages and I just finished and proofreading takes TOO LONG)

In the tentative warmth of early spring, when the sun finally peeks out from behind the clouds after months of virtual absence, the need for heavy furs and wool begins to wane. Though nighttime still brings with it a biting cold, the days aren’t quite as harsh; Faye revels in the chance to wear lighter clothing, even leaving her arms exposed to soak up the sunshine pouring down from overhead. How her husband manages year-round still baffles her, but in this weather, she is more than happy to join him.

Where a sense of uncertainty arises, though, is with clothing their young child. Atreus is but an infant, still too young to walk or speak, and his early birth has left him even more vulnerable to the conditions in which he exists. Frail and prone to bouts of illness, Faye frets over him constantly, and though the slow ebbing away of winter gives her hope, she still fears for him, endlessly concerned with keeping him warm and dry and healthy.

Even so, the furs seem excessive. Early in the morning as she prepares the boy for the day, she finds herself hunting around their home, her baby cradled close to her chest and tucked inside her own tunic as she searches for something a little lighter to wrap him in. Something more appropriate for the warming weather and the approaching summer months.

As it turns out, her husband has just the thing, tucked away among his sparse belongings. She usually takes care not to snoop- though he has been open with her about his past, he is still a very private man, and she respects that enough to leave him be- but today, the few pieces of clothing he retains from him homeland have drawn her attention for their light fabric and vibrant colours. Some pieces of fine wool, woven in unfamiliar patterns. Linens that are even more alien to her, but which seem appropriate for the warmer climate she has only heard stories about; Greece could be another realm all its own, for what little she knows of it. Regardless, she finds something that suits the purpose she intends; a red cloth with gold patterning. Something she remembers him wearing when he first came to her, and something he has kept carefully tucked away, all these years.

Atreus is still sleepy when Faye begins to wrap him, cooing gently as he yawns at her. He seems entirely content to snuggle into the new fabric, and she smiles at the image he makes; the colour is striking against his fair skin, and as she had hoped, it is much lighter than the furs she’s been using throughout the colder months. It suits him, and Faye makes sure that it’s tucked in tightly before holding him close once more, pressing a feather-light kiss to his forehead.

“Just like your father,” she hums, and Atreus yawns again. “He loves you very, very much, sweetheart.”

Atreus dozes off right there in her arms, wrapped tight in his father’s old clothes, and Faye smiles to herself. It’s a very simple start to a very pleasant day.

* * *

When Kratos returns to his home late in the evening, it is with supplies in tow; though the frost clings only to the early mornings at this time of year, he is diligent about collecting firewood for the warming of their home, and he hunts year-round; meat to feed his family and furs to clothe them. He stacks the firewood outside and hauls the small collection of rabbits caught by his traps over one shoulder; these, he brings to the door with them. They will be skinned; their meat prepared for consumption or storage, and the rest put to use in whatever ways Faye deems necessary to their survival and comfort.

He nudges the door open with his shoulder, already feeling the sense of home wash over him; there, a fire burning in the hearth, the familiar scent of herbs, the sound of his beloved wife humming a lullaby. It fills Kratos with warmth, and he is quick to let himself in; the rabbits are set aside to be dealt with shortly, his hunting knife laid on the workbench to be cleaned and sharpened. He turns to Faye next, and in her arms, he sees their child, dozing peacefully. A moment passes before he registers the vibrant cloth in which the boy is wrapped, and he has no name for the raw, visceral _thing_ that rises in him when he understands.

“What is he wearing?” And the words come out harshly; more harshly than he has spoken to his wife in years. Decades, maybe. He does not feel entirely in control. “Where did you-”

“With your things.” Faye- sweet, patient Faye- does not flinch. She holds her son and she watches Kratos with a growing frown, her expression radiating concern with a hint of the defiance that Kratos fell in love with so long ago. “I needed something light to wrap him in. The furs are too warm, and he can’t exactly follow your example at his age.”

The logic is there, and distantly, Kratos understands, but none of it pierces through the haze that threatens to blind him. Something as unfamiliar as it is intimately close; something he cannot name. Not right away. “He cannot wear that. He cannot touch it.”

“Why not?” It’s a demand as much as it is a genuine question, and Faye steps closer. She has never been afraid of him, no matter the state he might be in, and Kratos- Kratos could never decide how he felt about that. “Explain it to me. Make me understand, _verr_ , because you aren’t making any sense.”

But Kratos has no explanation for this. Nothing that he can put into words; certainly not into a language so far from his mother tongue. He cannot label this thing in his chest; the one that seizes so violently when he sees their little boy wrapped in the cloth he used to wear. A symbol of the darkest period of his life; a reminder of his greatest shame. Perhaps keeping it around in the first place was meant as some kind of punishment, but now that he has been confronted with the image of Atreus, bundled tightly in the worn cloth-

Fear. He realizes, suddenly, that this feeling is fear.

“He cannot wear it.” He turns away slowly and makes for the door. He needs fresh air, and he needs space to process this. Space to store it away along with the rest. “Get rid of it.”

He leaves silence behind him, and by the time he reaches the edge of their small homestead, it is broken by the sound of a baby’s cries.

Kratos does not turn back.

* * *

Despite how much of his childhood has been confined to these four walls, Atreus is an avid explorer in every environment presented to him. When he’s allowed outside, the forest becomes a puzzle with a million little secrets to discover; trees to climb, paths to learn, hazards to avoid. He’s eager to find every nook and cranny and then learn their names and histories; this place is his, in whatever tiny way, and he loves it. He loves the opportunity to pick it apart and investigate any tiny fragment that passes him by.

It’s not just the forest, though. For all the days he spends cooped up inside, young or sick or both, Atreus sees fit to explore his home, too.

It isn’t very big. By the time he’s eight years old, he can cross from one end to the other in a dozen big steps, a discovery he amuses himself with by crossing back and forth and counting out loud until he’s satisfied with the result. The ceiling is too high for him to reach- he suspects his father might be able to brush it with his fingertips, but hasn’t yet worked up the courage to ask- but he’s spent hours upon hours staring at its shadowed recesses, memorizing the patterns of wood and cloth. Distant, but still familiar.

What it lacks in size, though, the little cabin makes up for in complexity. Every bit of space is used to its fullest extent, outfitted to house its three inhabitants and keep them safe from the outside world. Atreus busies himself learning every inch of this place over and over again, from the sparse, hand-carved furniture to the fur rugs and blankets that keep them warm through the harsh winters. The hearth is built of stone, Mother keeps dried herbs hanging from the wooden beams overhead, Father’s workbench is tucked away in a corner- he explores and he learns, spending his every waking moment becoming familiar with his home. Touching everything, asking his mother questions when understanding eludes him, wishing, quietly, that his father could explain the tiny details that escape them both.

It still takes him years to find the secret cellar under the floor. Years of exploring, and never has it occurred to him to take a peek under the bearskin rug beneath his feet.

He finds it by accident, tripping on the corner of the rug as he makes a rush towards the front door, eager to get out for the day now that he’s finished his early-morning chores. Mother is outside already, working on her garden, and Father- Father could be anywhere. He’s been gone for days, as he often is, and Atreus still worries about him, no matter how commonplace this might be. The chance to spend the day in the forest is a welcome distraction, but he still pauses, intent to smooth the rug back into place. The seam in the floorboards catches his attention, though, and- forever a curious boy- he kneels down, setting his bow aside to investigate further.

He rolls the rug out of the way, and the discovery of a trapdoor has him lighting up, casting a furtive glance towards the door, liable to be caught at any moment. Surely, his parents ought to have mentioned this secret before, were it something they wanted him to be aware of, but the fact that it remains a secret at all gives it a sort of illicit undertone. It makes Atreus hold his breath as he shuffles towards the handle, a thick piece of leather nailed to one of the boards. He needs to stand to lift the door- it’s heavy; not meant for a child of his size to be opening on his own- but with a little determination and a lot of force, he manages to get it all the way up, careful not to let it clatter onto the floor. He doesn’t want to bring Mother running, just in case he gets in trouble for finding it in the first place.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness in the little cellar. He can’t see much, and it’s only once he works up the ambition to climb down into the hole that he can pick out a few more details. It seems to be mostly an area for storage, and he runs his hands over a couple old wooden chairs, stacked messily and wearing a layer of dust. Beneath his feet, the floor is hard-packed earth, cold against his skin and making him wonder all over again how long this place has been here without his knowledge. Surely, it must have been built along with the house. Why hasn’t he known about it until now?

A glint of metal catches his eye, and Atreus turns to look, only to be distracted by something else entirely. A bit of cloth, crimson-red like fresh blood. It’s folded neatly, tucked into a little shelf carved out of dirt and stone, and when Atreus reaches out to pick it up, it’s softer than anything he’s ever felt. There’s a pattern stitched in gold that he can’t quite make out in the dark, but already, he’s infatuated, a thousand questions flooding his mind as he turns it over in his hands. Where had this cloth come from? Why was it hiding under the floorboards like this? Would his parents answer him if he brought these questions to them?

Whatever the case, Atreus finds himself attached to it. Slowly, he climbs his way back out of the cellar, keeping the cloth gathered close, and once he’s back in his home, he goes to work covering up the evidence of his little investigation. He brushes the dirt off his feet and back into the hole, then closes the trapdoor and covers it again with the bearskin. He’s left with the cloth, and after a moment of consideration, he decides to wear it himself; he ties it carefully around his middle, leaving its intricate pattern on display, and then spending a little while admiring the way it looks. It’s not like anything he’s ever owned before, and immediately, he wants to show it to his mother. Maybe he’ll get in trouble for his snooping, but she’s always kind about those sorts of things, so he doesn’t let it bother him as he finally makes his way outside.

Mother smiles when she sees him, and though her expression becomes briefly unreadable when she sees what he’s wearing, she certainly doesn’t seem upset. She tells him he looks handsome, and she gives him a hug, and she sets him to work on weeding the garden, allowing no room for any questioning about the origins of the strange cloth.

Atreus doesn’t let it bother him. He digs his hands into the soil and focuses on his task. The cloth remains a comforting source of pressure around his middle, and he’s careful not to get it dirty. He doesn’t want to ruin this strange, wonderful thing that he’s found himself, however mysterious it may be.

* * *

It is rare, these days, for Kratos to spend more than a handful of days with his family at a time. As his son grows older, Kratos’ need to distance himself from the boy intensifies; he is determined to ensure that this child does not make the mistakes of his past. Still, for whatever divine blood runs through his veins, he is but a man, and he longs for moments with his family; with his beloved wife and their precious child. So today, he returns home, rough with his time in the wilds of this land and announcing his return with little more than the sound of his footsteps in the snow.

Smoke floats up in lazy clouds from the chimney atop their home, and with the evening approaching, Kratos feels the draw of a warm fire and a hearty meal. He follows the well-worn path to the front door and pushes it open, breathing in the earthy scent of his home.

Faye tends to the fire, barely glancing up as he comes inside. “It’s been weeks, my love.”

Guilt, hot and insistent. He swallows it and closes the door behind him, blocking out the chill of early winter. “I am here now.”

“Yes.” She stands slowly, dusting the ashes off her knees before turning towards him. She is, as always, exactly as beautiful as he remembers. More so, perhaps. Though her tone hints at irritation, her expression is warm, and when Kratos approaches, she accepts him, letting him take her into his arms and kiss her. A private moment, and an intimacy he has missed since the day he left. She is soft under his hands, and warm, and when they separate, she is smiling, albeit faintly. She is quiet when she speaks again. Gentle. “He misses you dearly.”

Atreus. Kratos exhales, and he looks away. It occurs to him, then, that the boy is not present; his bed is empty, and nowhere in the cabin can he see their son tucked away. “Where is he?”

“Exploring. He’s getting stronger.” Faye turns her attention back to the hearth, and Kratos watches her for a moment before deciding to get himself settled. “He’ll be back soon. Be nice. Please.”

Kratos does not respond. He dusts the snow off his shoulders and sets down his things. He does not know how long he will spend at home, but he will, at least for the moment, indulge in its comforts. Already, warmth seeps into the far reaches of his being for every moment he spends inside. This is something he will always miss when he goes away.

The quiet, busy sounds of his home provide comfort, and Kratos sits himself down to catch his breath. It has been a long time in the wilds, and he knows to appreciate these peaceful moments while he has them. He watches his wife work at the fire for a short while before moving on to other things, and only when he hears the crunch of snow outside does he turn his attention, once more, to the door.

The door swings open slowly, just enough for Atreus to slip inside. Right away, Kratos catches himself assessing the boy; he searches for changes, for injuries, for improvement. He looks much the same as he did when Kratos left, if perhaps a little warmer in his colouring, and it is only once Atreus steps into the spill of firelight that the most prominent change makes itself known.

“Father! You’re back.” Excitement spills through in his voice, clear as ever. Kratos stands as his son approaches, but his focus remains fixed on a single tiny detail. “How was your-?”

“Where did you find this?” The cloth. That damned red cloth; a physical remainder of the past he fights to forget. When Faye dug it up years ago, he ought to have been rid of it for good- should have burned it to ashes, for whatever symbolism that might offer- but he could not bring himself to it. Perhaps it was a mistake to believe it would stay hidden.

“I- this?” Atreus seems mostly confused. He looks down at himself, fingertips brushing over the cloth he wears around his waist, a striking reflection of what Kratos used to be. Of what he still is, in so many ways. “I- I just found it. I thought- I didn’t-”

Worried, now. Defensive. Nervous. He knows, or at least freshly senses, that he has done something wrong. _No_. Kratos corrects himself immediately, because Atreus should never have had access to the cursed thing. This is his own fault. Still, the fear that bubbles up in him is familiar; the desperate need to separate himself from his child in every possible way. He steps closer, and he means to take it. To do away with it properly this time, and to ensure this never happens again.

His wife does not allow him this action.

“I found it for him.” Faye speaks up from across the room, and when Kratos looks towards her- this is a familiar expression. Her shoulders are squared, and she wears a challenge on her face. One of the first things he fell in love with, and one of the most frustrating parts of her personality. “A small accessory. I think it suits him. Don’t you?”

There is no room for dissent in her voice. Slowly, Kratos looks back towards their son. Atreus watches him with wide eyes, but then blinks himself out of it. Reassured now that his mother supports him.

 _Reassured._ Kratos does not wish for his son to fear him. Despite the distance, despite how harsh he knows he can be- the last thing he wants is for Atreus to be scared.

Slowly, he breathes. His eyes linger on the cloth for a moment and trace its familiar pattern. Surely, such a mundane thing cannot hold the weighty implications of his past. To believe so is nothing short of foolish; Kratos struggles to abandon the notion entirely.

“We’ll be having dinner soon.” Faye speaks again, and Kratos looks away. “Atreus, love. Could you help me with the preparations?”

Just like that, the boy is drawn away, entirely content with the distraction. For now, Kratos keeps to himself, stewing in the thoughts of his past. Atreus cannot begin to understand his feelings about that particular article of clothing, and Kratos cannot begin to explain. Not when he has worked so hard to keep his past a secret, to keep the boy untainted. With Faye’s determination and stubbornness in play, it seems that he will need to ignore the gash of crimson, or else grow used to its presence. To the constant reminder it provides of every mistake he has made before.

The smell of cooking meat brings him back to the present. He puts the conflict out of his mind and tries, for the moment, to enjoy this time with his family. He knows that it will not last long.

* * *

“Father? Can I ask you something?”

The boat, Atreus has learned, is the best place to prod his father about sensitive topics. He suspects it has something to do with the tranquility of the lake; even with the threat of monsters on its shores, the water is still, and the weather is clear. Snowflakes drift down in lazy spirals, melting as soon as they meet the water’s surface, and things are quiet. Here, they can talk.

In the stern of the boat, Father grunts an affirmation. On the seat beside Atreus, Mimir stays quiet, and when Atreus glances down towards their companion, he looks curious. It might be risky to ask- bringing up the past always is- but he presses on, all the same.

“Mother gave me this,” he starts, reaching up to touch the scarf around his neck. Even as Brok and Sindri have offered him improved equipment, he’s always been careful to wear the scarf. It’s soft and golden and warm against his skin, a perfect echo. “She said it was to help me remember her when she was gone.” _To protect you against the cold._ She’d been smiling when she said that, even as she faded away. Those last few days were the hardest.

Father keeps his eyes distant, not looking right at Atreus. Talking about her is always difficult, though Atreus is eager for whatever he gets. “She was kind,” the man says quietly, “and she loved you a great deal.”

“I- I know.” Warmth. Atreus clings to those words and struggles to remember why he brought it up in the first place. “But… when I found this…” Slowly, he moves his hand down and touches the other constant to his clothing. A sash tied around his middle, crimson red and soft to the touch. Different than Mother’s scarf, but just as important for reasons he can’t identify. “I never knew where it was from, but… is it yours?” A beat passes, and he tries once more. “Is it from Sparta?”

He holds his breath while he watches his father. Though the man has slowly been opening up and revealing more about his past, Atreus still needs to work to earn any scrap of information. And this, in particular- he still remembers when he found it in the first place. For that matter, he remembers his mother’s lie, covering for him to protect him from Father’s anger, if that’s even what it was. To this day, the memory leaves him with questions. Surely, something that could cause such a strong reaction must hold some kind of significance.

“Yes.” So much time has passed that Atreus has lost his focus almost entirely, but the response snaps him back to attention. When Father looks towards him, their eyes meeting for a short moment, Father looks distant. Sombre. “It is from my home.”

Progress. Atreus sits up a little taller, encouraged by the response. “It was yours? You used to wear it?”

“I did.” Atreus gets all caught up in imagining that as Father continues to speak. “In a different time. Before I came here. The weather was warmer.”

It’s pretty close to a joke, for Father’s sense of humour. Atreus cracks a smile, and he hears Mimir almost laugh. Father continues to speak, though, and they both fall quiet. “It was something I wished to forget. It reminded me too much of things I would rather not remember.”

For that, Atreus feels a little guilty. “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “I didn’t- I didn’t mean to… hurt you.”

But Father shakes his head. He’s barely rowing now, mostly just using the paddle to keep them from drifting too far off-course. Not that it’s much of a risk; the wind is minimal and the only disturbances in the water are made by Father’s efforts. “It is not your job to protect me from my past. Nor is it mine to keep it hidden from you.” A sharp exhale, and once more, their eyes meet. “I did not… want to see you tainted the way I was. I did not want you to make my mistakes.”

It echoes other things that he’s said before, and Atreus is quiet. He rubs his fingertips over the soft fabric around his waist and wonders, distantly, about the things his father did while wearing this. If maybe it’s red for the sake of hiding bloodstains.

He abandons that morbid thought and pushes on to something else. “But you’re better now, right? You’re past that stuff.”

Silence. Atreus knows that his father still struggles, even if only with the memories. Their final encounter with Baldur had been enough to highlight that very clearly. “I am working to put it behind me,” he says eventually. “But my past is not your present, and if you wish to keep it…”

“I do.” Atreus pipes up right away, because it’s been a couple years and he’s grown very attached to the sash. Maybe it’s a sentimental thing; he now wears a small piece of each of his parents, and he likes that feeling. He likes having them close. “Um- if it’s okay. Sir.”

A twitch in Father’s cheek is almost a smile. “It is,” he confirms, and then, after a small pause, “it suits you.”

Atreus beams, and it’s hard to stay put in his seat and not give an excited little bounce. He doesn’t want to upend the boat. “Thank you, Father!’

And so they continue, with the sash as a comforting pressure around his middle and the scarf tucked close and warm around his neck. Atreus holds these things close, each of them incredibly dear to him, and with the new knowledge of the sash’s history, it feels even more important to hold on tight. He and Father still have a long way to go, but they’re making progress. Baby steps of trust and communication.

“You know,” Mimir says absently once the more serious moment has passed, “I think I would look rather dashing in red. Any old clothes hanging around for me to wear?”

Atreus laughs, and Father grunts, and everything feels good. This is exactly the way things are supposed to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! I've definitely got more stuff in the works for these guys. <3


End file.
